


The Senator's Son

by TheAnnoyingAlien



Category: Political RPF - US 20th c., Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, I Blame Tumblr, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Mpreg, Scandal, What Have I Done, illegitimate child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8262244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnnoyingAlien/pseuds/TheAnnoyingAlien
Summary: A crack fanfiction I wrote based off of an ask box meme on tumblr. Artie Sanders is the only son of presidential candidate Bernie Sanders, and he absolutely idolizes his father. He’s done everything in his power to help boost Bernie’s campaign and aid him in claiming the Democratic nomination and the presidency, but when he inadvertently discovers a shameful secret about his father, will he continue to think so highly of him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As is customary with many of my fanfictions, this one was inspired by tumblr. I did this ask box meme one time where people would send in the names of two politicians and I’d have to come up with a child for them, and that went about as well as you’d expect. But yeah… this is awful and stupid and horrible all around and I have many regrets about writing this but I hope at the very least it gives everyone a good laugh. Enjoy this piece of shit story.

It was Monday, April 25th, 2016. The Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Rhode Island primaries were all going to be held the following day, and the remaining presidential candidates had come to Philadelphia to do some last minute campaigning before the polls opened. The playing field had narrowed considerably as more and more candidates failed to carry previous primaries and consequently dropped out of the race. Now there were only five presidential hopefuls left: two Democrats and three Republicans.

The remaining Republican candidates were Donald Trump, Ted Cruz, and John Kasich. Kasich and Cruz were both well behind Trump, though Cruz was close enough to him to have a slim chance of catching up to and possibly overtaking him. He and Kasich had recently decided to team up in order to take down the leading candidate, though it didn’t look like it was going to work. They held a rally together in an attempt to drum up more support for their cause, but barely anyone came to it.

Trump had decided to hold a rally too, and waves of fools and bigots turned up, more than willing to listen to the rich Republican reality TV star’s racist rhetoric. With the surprising amount of support he had garnered and his lead over Cruz and Kasich, he was well on his way to becoming the Republican nominee, something that everyone, whether they were a Democrat, Republican, or independent, dreaded.

While the Republicans were busy with their affairs, the two Democratic candidates were also out campaigning. Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders were each holding a rally of their own, attended by mounds of their supporters. Hillary had a substantial, comfortable lead over Bernie, had been in the lead for a while, and was practically guaranteed to become the Democratic nominee, but Bernie remained undeterred. People were urging him to drop out, people were calling him a nuisance, people were comparing him to the much-loathed Ralph Nader of 2000 Election infamy, but he ignored all of them. He would soldier on to the bitter end.

Bernie stood upon the stage at his rally after giving an inspiring pep talk, leaning over the podium and smiling approvingly at his fans, who were cheering and clapping and waving “Feel the Bern” signs all about. The candidate paused and waited for all the noise to die down a bit before continuing to speak; as things started to get quieter he could overhear some of his supporters closer to the stage conversing with one another.

“I saw a Hillary supporter wearing one of those ridiculous ‘YAAAAAS QUEEN’ Hillary shirts on my way over here! God, I was so disgusted I wanted to puke! Who would wear something as trashy as that?” Scoffed a young man wearing a onesie with pictures of Bernie’s face all over it. The young woman he was talking to, decked out in a pastel t-shirt with a picture of Bernie in a flower crown on it, nodded vehemently in agreement.

“I know, right?” She sneered. “It’s so stupid! You know what I saw yesterday on tumblr when I was browsing for dank Bernie memes? Some gross fucker commented on a picture of her at one of the debates and said she was pretty! She’s not pretty at all; she’s an ugly bitch! Anyways, look at this erotic artwork I found of Bernie just now! Isn’t he daddy af?” The woman took her cellphone and showed the man a drawing from deviantART. The style was a horrible imitation of manga scribbled in MS Paint, and it depicted an unrealistically buff, beefy Bernie with big anime eyes wearing nothing but a thong. 

“Unf, that’s so hot! Bernie is bae!” The man moaned languidly, “Oh, that reminds me-did I tell you about the new Bernie butt plug I bought off of Etsy? Let me show you a picture of it!” At that point Bernie decided he had heard enough from the two of them and resumed talking.

“Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming, everyone!” He addressed his fans. “I wouldn’t have been able to come so far if it weren’t for your support!” The crowd roared and cheered some more, jumping up and down, flailing their arms, and waving their signs erratically.

“YAAAAAAS BERNIE YAAAAAAS!”

“BERNIE SANDERS CHOKE ME DADDY!”

“I WANT YOUR BABY INSIDE ME!” Bernie gave an awkward smile; he appreciated his fans and the passion and enthusiasm they had for him, but sometimes it was overwhelming. He didn’t dwell on his rowdy supporters for long though; he had something important to say and he wasn’t going to let a few excitable teenagers distract him.

“Anyways, there’s a very special person whom I’d also like to thank for helping me get to where I am today: my son, Artie.” Bernie went on. “He’s been campaigning for me and drumming up support since the very beginning, and I feel so fortunate to have had him by my side. He’s done so much and has worked so hard for me; without him I don’t know if my campaign would be as successful as it has been. I guess you could say my campaign is a work of Art-literally, heh!” His audience roared with laughter at his corny dad joke.

“Damn Bernie, back at it again with the son puns!”

“Hee hee, you’re a true expert of comedy! So unlike that unfunny bitch Clinton!”

“Bring Artie out!” A supporter standing in the back began chanting, “Bring Artie out!” More Bernie fans joined in with them, and soon the entire rally was urging their candidate to present his son to them. Bernie grinned; he was more than happy to give them what they wanted.

“Alright! Artie, come on out!” He exclaimed, looking off to one side of the stage. He waited a moment for his son to step out and bask in the applause and praise of his supporters, but Artie did not make an entrance. The crowd started murmuring confusedly, and Bernie himself was confused as well. “Artie?” Suddenly, a campaign intern rushed onto the stage and tapped him on the shoulder, getting his attention.

“Senator Sanders, I’m sorry to interrupt, but your son wanted me to tell you that he’s stepping out for a bit.” She informed him. “He’s taken a small group of your supporters on a march to go protest at the Trump rally a few blocks down. But don’t worry; he said he wouldn’t be gone for long.” Bernie grew noticeably nervous at this revelation.

“Oh dear…” He mumbled as panicked thoughts began to rush through his mind. Artie was more than old enough to look after himself, and Bernie knew that if things at the Trump rally began to get heated he would do the smart thing and leave, but despite this the senator could not keep calm. “This is bad, this is very bad…”

“Is something wrong, Senator?” The intern asked him. “You look a little pale.” The blood had drained from Bernie’s face, and he began to feel faint. He leaned against the podium, steadying himself as his legs began to tremble.

“I’ll be fine; everything is okay,” He assured the intern in spite of his obviously panicked state, “I’m… I’m just worried about my boy. I don’t want him anywhere near that horrible man; I have to go get him and bring him back here right away!”

“Senator, he’s just leading a protest! He’s done that many times before and you’ve never had an issue with it; what’s wrong with him doing it now?”

“So many things are wrong with it!” Bernie cried, sounding uncharacteristically distressed, “He’s protested against Trump before, yes, but never at a Trump rally with Trump present! I’ve tried so hard to make sure he never comes in contact with that disgusting cheeto in a toupee! Whenever I’ve had him campaign, canvass, or protest I’ve always made sure he’s gone to places far away from wherever Trump happens to be lurking! Trump’s seen Artie on TV with me before, but he’s never seen him up close in person and he’s never talked to him. If he sees Artie at his rally and they start engaging with each other, if he happens to get a good look at my son, then he might find out about…” Bernie ceased speaking, realizing that his conversation with the intern was attracting the attention of several of his supporters.

“He might find out about what, Senator?” The intern inquired, looking quite puzzled.

“Uh… nothing!” Bernie stammered nervously. Then, he turned to address the crowd again. “Everyone, I’m truly sorry about this, but you’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes! I have some urgent business to attend to!” With that, he ran off the stage, leaving his bewildered intern and fans behind.

Meanwhile, a few blocks down where the Trump rally was being held, Trump was shouting prejudiced, bigoted comments about Mexican people, yelling about building his wall, and bombarding his supporters with disgusting remarks about women.

“Mexicans are rapists who steal our jobs and our hottest women!” He exclaimed. “This is why we’ve gotta build that wall! We’re not gonna let them leave us with ugly bitches!” The crowd went wild at this, jumping and shouting and waving their “Make America Great Again” signs about in the air.

“YAAAAAAS TRUMP YAAAAAAS!”

“DONALD TRUMP CHOKE ME DADDY!”

“I WANT YOUR BABY INSIDE ME!” Trump grinned smugly, basking in the praise and admiration of his supporters. It did wonders for his ego to hear their compliments.

“You’re not going to be building any walls, and you’re not going to become president either!” A voice suddenly cut through the cheers.

“Dump Trump! Dump Trump! Dump Trump!” Several more voices chanted.

Trump’s contented smirk morphed into an annoyed grimace, and he glanced over in the direction of the voices. A collection of young people holding “Dump Trump” and “Feel the Bern” signs had amassed itself near the stage, forcing its way through the crowd of Trump stans.

“I most definitely am going to become president!” Trump snapped, glowering down at the indignant teenagers. “Who the hell said I’m not?” One young man, presumably the leader of the Bernie bunch, emerged and stood at the front of the group, taking on a defensive stance as he faced up at Trump, locking eyes with the candidate.

“I did!” The man announced. Trump stayed silent, taking a moment to examine the young angry liberal standing before him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and was dressed simply but professionally in a white collar shirt and navy tie with matching navy slacks. He had brown eyes hidden behind a pair of rectangular glasses and wild hair that reminded him very much of Bernie’s, only it was fuller and dirty blonde as opposed to the Senator’s, which was thinning and white. Trump immediately recognized who the young man was; his untamed mane gave it all away.

“Oh, it’s you,” He sneered, “You’re Sanders’ boy.”

“Damn right I am!” The man replied proudly. “I’m Artie Sanders, and come November, my father will take you down and winch the presidency away from you!”

“Ha! I’d like to see him try!” Trump laughed, “How’s he going to take me down when he can’t even win the nomination? Haven’t you seen the polls, kid? He’s trailing far behind Crooked Hillary!”

“He’ll beat her too, regardless of what the polls say!” Artie shot back. “There's more than enough time and there are more than enough primaries left for him to overtake her and get nominated, just you wait and see!”

“Arthur Bernard Sanders, what on earth are you doing here?” He heard a familiar voice scold him. Artie whipped around and saw his father squeezing his way through the crowd of Trump supporters, accompanied by a small mass of fans that had followed him from his rally.

“Chill out, Dad! I’m just leading a protest!” The candidate’s son groaned in annoyance. “I told your interns where I was going; didn’t they tell you?”

“Oh yes they did, and I put my rally on hold and came all the way here to get you! End this protest right now and come back to my rally with me; I don’t want you in his presence.” Bernie demanded, gesturing to Trump.

“Stop treating me like a kid!” Artie whined. “I’m just trying to help with your campaign!”

“I know, I know, and I appreciate your help and all that you’ve done, but I really don’t want you here! Please come back with me!” Bernie begged. Artie, having inherited his father’s stubbornness, was having none of it.

“Why should I?” He scoffed. “Give me one good reason!”

“Because I’m your father and I said so!” Bernie replied tersely.

“That’s not a good reason at all! Ugh, Dad, go back to your rally! You’re embarrassing me!”

“I’m not leaving unless you leave with me!” The two of them kept bickering back and forth as the Bernie and Trump supporters looked on in quiet confusion. Trump too was quiet, something unusual for him, studying the father and son duo closely. He was especially focused upon Artie; he noted that while the young man bore a striking resemblance to Bernie, there were quite a few features of his that were very unlike the senator’s. Where-more importantly, who-did they come from? The other candidates campaigned with their children just as Bernie did-for example, Clinton often had her daughter at her side, and Cruz would parade around with his two little girls-but Clinton had a husband and Cruz had a wife. Trump had never seen Bernie out with his own potential First Spouse; he campaigned with his son and his son alone.

“I wonder... no, that can’t be possible! Can it?” Trump muttered to himself. By now both Bernie and Artie had noticed that he was staring; Bernie was visibly anxious under his gaze whereas Artie was simply frustrated.

“What do you want?” He shouted at the Republican.

“How old are you?” Trump inquired.

“Me? I’m twenty-three.” Artie answered. He didn’t know why Trump was curious about his age, but he didn’t see any harm in telling him. Trump thought for a moment, stroking his chin as he made some mental calculations.

“Twenty-three, ey?” He mused. “When’s your birthday?”

“September 20th.” Said Artie.

“So you’ll be twenty-four in a few months… that would mean your dad had sex sometime late in 1991.” Trump deduced. “Interesting… you know, I always see Clinton campaigning with her husband, but I’ve never seen your dad with anybody but you. You got a mom?”

“Alright Artie, that’s enough.” Bernie intervened, looking extremely uncomfortable now. “Please-let’s end the protest and go back to my rally; my supporters really want to see you.” Artie held up his finger, silencing his father.

“Just a minute, Dad. I want to see where he’s going with this.” He turned back to Trump, glaring suspiciously at the heavily spray tanned man. “No, I don’t have a mom. Just a dad.”

“It takes two to tango, kid,” Trump smirked, “Your dad didn’t make you by himself. He had to take a woman to bed and knock her up.”

“Artie, let’s go!” Bernie urged his son once more, grabbing hold of his arm. “Now!” Artie jerked his arm away. His lips curled into a frown and his eyes narrowed at Trump; the candidate was stepping into territory he had no business being in.

“My father’s not interested in women, Trump, and I really don’t have a mother.” He revealed. “Dad explained this at one of his press conferences last year early on in his campaign; didn’t you see it? He said he liked men, he said that he was the one who got ‘knocked up’ as you so classily put it, he said he carried me, birthed me, and raised me by himself. I have another father, Trump, but I don’t know who he is, Dad doesn’t want to talk about it, and I respect his wishes. I have one exceptionally wonderful parent who’s always been there for me; why would I care about my other father who’s never been a part of my life? Why do you even care, Trump? You have no reason to prod into my father’s personal life!”

“Oh, I think I do…” Trump chuckled, grinning with satisfaction. It all made sense now; all the pieces were coming together, and oh, it was so rich!

“What do you mean?” Artie asked, unsure of what the man was alluding to.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Trump suggested, nodding towards Bernie, “He knows what’s up. He can deny it all he wants, but he knows.” Artie turned to Bernie, who by this point was such a nervous wreck that he was trembling uncontrollably, and a thin sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead.

“Dad? What’s going on? Please tell me.” Artie pressed, “What does he mean? What's he talking about?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Bernie dismissed him, “Come on, we’re leaving right now.”

“Don’t go running away from this, Sanders!” Trump snapped, slamming his fist down on his podium and startling the father and son. “I think our son deserves to know just who his other father is!” Everyone gasped at this, except for Bernie, who stood there looking mortified as the crowd began to murmur amongst itself.

“Our son?” Artie repeated, horrified by this new disclosure. He looked to his father, then to Trump, then back to his father, and back to Trump again. His eyes widened in shock. “But… then that would mean that you’re…” He knew very well what it meant, but he couldn’t even bring himself to say it. Trump gave an affirming nod, his lips curling into a wicked grin.

“That’s right,” He smirked, “I’m your other dad!” The crowd became outraged, and the Bernie stans that had accompanied their candidate and his son felt anguished and cheated. 

“Senator Sanders, why?!”

“How could you do this?!”

“Looks like someone’s already had Trump’s baby inside them…” As the rude comments and despondent cries began to build up around him, Bernie felt his heart pounding faster and his head spinning. He was ruined; he was ruined and there was no coming back from this. Trump glowered down at him, still wearing that malicious smirk on his face.

“Don't you remember that night all those years ago? You know the one I’m talking about. New Year’s Eve, 1991, when you were at that party at that gay bar in New York?” The Republican teased him. “Remember what we did after that party ended?” Bernie’s cheeks flushed and he grabbed his son’s arm again, deciding that now was the time to make a run for it. Artie was too stunned to protest or pull away as Bernie started leading him out; their respective masses of followers tailed behind them and fired off questions left and right.

“Senator Sanders, is it true?”

“Is Artie’s other father really Donald Trump?”

“Why the fuck was Trump hanging out at a gay bar?!”

“No comment.” Bernie mumbled curtly, wanting them all to cease with their inquiries as they hurried away.

“Don’t run off like that!” Trump barked. “Don’t ignore your supporters! Tell them about that night we spent together! Tell them about how you came home with me! Tell them what you did! Tell them!”

“Tell them! Tell them!” The Trump supporters chanted. Surprisingly, they seemed unfazed by Trump’s alleged gay affair and the resulting love child. In their minds, they most likely viewed it as a bizarre sort of triumph, a way of Trump asserting his dominance and superiority over the other man. Bernie ignored Trump and his followers and high tailed it back to his own rally with Artie, where the rest of his supporters were waiting. The ones who had followed him quickly spread the word about what had happened to the ones who had stayed behind, and as he took the stage once more Bernie was met with furious boos and shouts instead of delighted clapping and cheers.

“Fuck this and fuck you! I’m voting for Hillary! At least she doesn’t have a kid with someone she’s running against!”

“Yeah! At least she doesn’t have a kid with a racist, sexist, homophobic evil man! Bill Clinton may be a pervert, but he’s nothing like Trump!”

“I’m not feeling the Bern anymore, I’m feeling Bernt out!”

“Everyone, please calm down,” Bernie pleaded, trying to soothe the crowd, “It’s okay!”

“It’s not okay!” One of his former supporters shrieked. “We won’t turn a blind eye to this! This is despicable, and we will not be voting for you!”

“Senator Sanders, I’m very disappointed in you!”

“We thought Clinton was a shifty liar, but it turns out that you’re the real liar! How could you hide this from all of us? What else are you lying about?”

“I hope you lose the primaries tomorrow! Good fucking bye!” With that, his supporters turned their noses up at Bernie and began to file out of the rally. Bernie felt decimated; his precious following, his beloved fans, the devoted young people he had inspired and worked hard for over the past year had all flipped on him. He was alone, all alone. Well, he still had his son. He tentatively turned to Artie, who had not said a word since departing from the Trump rally, and grew concerned. The young man looked agitated and was shaking a bit.

“Artie?” Bernie asked worriedly, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Artie, please speak to me. Are you alright?” Artie glared at him and shoved his hand away.

“No. No I’m not.”


	2. Chapter 2

With the rally having fizzled out, Bernie and Artie got some takeout for dinner and returned to their hotel room for the evening. The candidate ate his meal quietly while his son sat at his side, equally as quiet but noticeably fuming. His brows were knitted together in an angry scowl, lips pursed tightly, and he had one of his fists clenched while he stabbed his food with the fork in his other hand. Bernie didn’t like seeing his son so distraught, and he didn’t like how tense things had gotten between them either.

“Why don’t we watch some TV?” He suggested, trying to lighten the mood. “I bet something good’s on.” Artie’s eyes narrowed and he stabbed his food an especially hard time, clearly indicating that he was not interested in television. Bernie didn’t let that faze him; he grabbed the remote anyways. He turned on the TV just to have some background noise to break the awkward silence, thinking that leaving some mundane soap opera or cartoon on as they ate would be fine. The TV came to life, displaying its default channel, which just so happened to be the local news. Bernie nearly choked on his food when he saw what the station was covering.

“Hundreds of Bernie Sanders supporters were stunned this afternoon upon learning a surprising rumor about the presidential hopeful.” Said one of the reporters on screen.

“Oh shit.” Bernie thought as a sense of dread overcame him. The media had found out.

“The senator was with his son, Artie Sanders, who was leading a protest at a Donald Trump rally earlier today, when things took an interesting turn.” The second reporter followed.

“According to some of the witnesses, Trump claimed to have had an affair with Senator Sanders back in 1991.”

“And he also claimed to be the other father of the senator’s son. Senator Sanders has neither confirmed nor denied the rumor at this time, but the general public has already jumped to conclusions, and experts have predicted that this is going to affect him negatively in the primaries tomorrow.”

“In other news, Republican presidential candidate Ted Cruz is thought by many to be the Zodiac Killer.” The TV suddenly cut out, much to Bernie’s confusion. He glanced to his side and saw that Artie had taken the remote and switched it off. The young man set the remote down, rose from his seat, and folded his arms across his chest as he faced his father.

“So,” He muttered coldly, “You gonna confirm or deny that rumor, Dad?”

“Artie, listen, I can explain-” Bernie started to reply, but Artie was in no mood to listen to whatever excuses he had.

“No! You listen!” The young man snarled. “I want to know if this is true, I need to know if this is true! I can’t trust Trump; I need to hear it from you! Is he or is he not my other father?” Bernie stayed silent for a moment before shamefully hanging his head. He was cornered; there was no more room for lying, nowhere else to hide.

“Yes, he is.” He finally admitted. “Trump isn’t fibbing; he really is your other father. I’m sorry, Artie, I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted you to know.” Artie’s heart sank; he had been hoping that it was all just a cruel joke, another one of Trump’s lies, but for once the man had told the truth, and what an awful truth it was!

“How did this happen?!” The candidate’s son cried, dropping to his knees in despair. “How?!”

“It was New Year’s Eve, I wanted to have some fun, and I had a little too much to drink, heh…” Bernie laughed nervously. “I went home with Trump and we… well… that’s when you were conceived. This is why I never told you about your other father, Artie. I'm sorry that you found out like this, that you found out at all.”

“You fucking piece of shit!” Artie swore, startling his father. “How could you do this? How could you let someone like Trump, someone against everything you stand for have his way with you?”

“I was drunk!” Bernie defended. “I was drunk and I was in my early fifties; I didn’t think I’d even be able to become pregnant! I thought I was too old!”

“Why didn't you get rid of me, Dad?” Artie sobbed as bitter tears began rolling down his cheeks, “I'm the bastard child of Donald Trump; why would you ever want to keep me?”

“Because I loved you, and I knew that you would be nothing like him.” Bernie replied, getting misty eyed himself. He lifted his glasses to dry his own tears before continuing. “I was so scared when I found out I was pregnant with you. I thought about getting rid of you, I thought about giving you up, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. You were mine, my work of art. Trump may be your other father, but you are not his son.”

“What if I was?” Artie questioned. “What if I am?”

“You’re not,” Bernie assured him, wrapping his arms around his son and embracing him in a comforting hug, “I know you’re not. You never have been and never will be like him.” Artie frowned and sniffled a bit, making no attempt to return the hug.

“Dad,” He sighed, pulling away from his father, “Dad you need to come clean about this. The primaries… you’re going to lose if you’re not honest with everyone.”

“It’ll be alright,” Bernie waved him off, “I’ll still win. My remaining supporters will turn up to vote for me.”

“But what if they don’t? Dad, you’re already trailing behind Clinton! You can’t afford to lose any more primaries! How can you be certain that they’ll turn out for you? You can’t!” Bernie didn’t answer. He went back to quietly eating his food; Artie sighed again and took his own meal to the fridge. He wasn’t hungry; there was too much on his mind. He headed into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

After taking a long shower, he stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist as he blotted his hair dry with another. He was overcome with a mixture of hurt and fury, unable to come to grips with the identity of his other father. He tried to avoid speculating about the encounter that led to his conception; the mere thought of Trump engaged in a messy, carnal tangle with Bernie made his stomach turn. He stared at himself in the mirror as he toweled his damp hair, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. The longer he gazed at himself, the more of Trump’s features he detected. He had Trump’s blonde hair, his nose-was he starting to take on an orange hue? No, that was just his imagination, but still Artie felt unsettled. He switched off the lights, not wanting to look at his body any longer, and dressed in his pajamas before exiting the bathroom and climbing into one of the beds. Bernie meanwhile was still sitting on the couch, gazing over at his son and reminiscing about the night he had been conceived.

He didn’t remember very much from that fateful evening, but he had been drunk off his ass, so that was to be expected. He vaguely recalled encountering Trump in the bar, though he hadn’t realized it had been him at the time due to the dim lighting and the alcohol. Trump too had been drinking apparently, and Bernie remembered the other man buying some more drinks for the both of them and the two of them grinding on one another on the dancefloor. The rest of the night’s details were a blur, but Bernie had fuzzy recollections of winding up in Trump’s penthouse, brief flashes of the other man’s body on top of his, barely tangible memories of the two of them engaged in raw, drunken passion.

The next morning he had been hungover as all hell, sore, covered in hickeys and spray tan residue, and absolutely horrified to find himself in the billionaire’s bed wearing nothing but his glasses. Trump was hungover too and equally displeased to find Bernie lying by his side. Trump had demanded that the senator get dressed, leave, and never speak of the encounter again, and Bernie was only too happy to do that. He wanted to forget it, wanted to forget this disgusting lapse in judgment.

But he couldn’t forget it, for Trump had left him with an unexpected “souvenir” to immortalize the evening. A couple weeks after the hookup, Bernie had found out he was pregnant, pregnant with the child of Donald Trump. He hadn’t considered that it could be possible due to his age, but a trip to the doctor confirmed it.

“Why didn’t you get rid of me?” Artie’s words echoed in his mind. And why didn’t he? He could have terminated the pregnancy, he could have given his son up, but he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was ready and willing to be a father, prepared to carry his child, love him, and raise him on his own. Trump may have been the other parent, but that didn’t make a difference to Bernie. This was his baby, his and his alone, and he vowed to ensure that Trump would have no part in his child’s life.

Bernie remembered starting to show as his pregnancy progressed, stroking his stomach while he talked to the developing baby inside of him. He remembered sitting in congress with the other senators, unable to button his suits closed as he entered his second and third trimesters, letting his coworkers feel his belly as his child kicked, listening to the baby names that they suggested to him. He remembered his water breaking, the violent, tightening pain of contractions, the agony of childbirth, and how proud he had been when his son was finally out and he was able to hold him for the first time, how small and precious he looked when the nurse placed him in his arms. Bernie raised him well as a single father, showering him in affection, encouraging him to follow his dreams, and guiding him down the right path. Artie had graduated high school with honors, earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology at Trinity College, and was working on earning a master’s, though he had put that on hold for a bit so he could devote time to his father’s campaign. Bernie was proud of the young man his baby had grown into, a kindhearted, hardworking young fellow who wanted to put his best foot forward and help as many others as he could. 

Artie never had been and never would be anything like Trump, Bernie was certain of it. He could only hope that he could get Artie himself to realize that as well.


	3. Chapter 3

The following day the primaries were held, and that evening the results began rolling in. In the end, as everyone had predicted, Bernie lost all the states except for one. Connecticut, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania-they all went to Clinton. All he’d won was Rhode Island; he had fallen even further behind his rival. Trump meanwhile had won big, securing every state for himself and leaving Cruz and Kasich high and dry. Surprisingly, revealing that he had had a gay affair and fathered the child of one of his opponents had hardly made a dent in his campaign. Bernie however was not so fortunate, and he knew he would soon have to take a drastic course of action. That evening, he held an impromptu press conference, addressing the few remaining supporters he still had. He stood at the podium, a broken man, with Artie solemnly at his side.

“The rumors you’ve been hearing are true,” He announced, “Donald Trump is indeed the other father of my son.” His fans were crestfallen.

“No! Not Trump! Anyone but Trump!”

“This can’t be true! Please tell us you’re lying!”

“Say it isn’t so!”

“It is so.” Bernie affirmed. “I can’t thank you all enough for the support you’ve given me; I was able to come so far and do so much because of you, but I can’t go on anymore. Because of negative publicity resulting from this information coming to light and my heavy losses in today’s primaries, I’ve decided to suspend my campaign.” His supporters cried out in despair. They lamented the loss of Bernie, whom they viewed, in spite of his lies, to be the only true and honest candidate in the race, the liberal Messiah, their socialist savior. They cursed the world, cursed Trump, cursed Hillary, and proceeded to make fun of her on social media as they had done for the past year, whipping out their Steve Buscemi memes and screeching about her allegedly being a pandering corporate establishment whore. It would not change the fact that she had won, that she was the presumptive Democratic nominee and that they now had to support her or face a Trump presidency, but they were furious, and it felt good to lash out at someone. They also, unfortunately, began to lash out at Artie.

“You!” A Bernie stan roared at the candidate’s son, “I hope you’re happy, you motherfucker! You ruined your father’s chances! He totally would have won if it wasn’t for you!”

“Fuck you, you bastard demon spawn of Trump!”

“Bernie should have aborted you, you fucking piece of shit! You’re not a work of art, you’re trash!” Bernie decided to end the press conference; his supporters were growing increasingly hostile, and he didn’t want them to harm Artie. He took his son by the hand and began discreetly leading him away, but they were soon spotted as they made their way down from the stage, and his enraged fans reached out for Artie, trying to claw at him, scratch him, maim him in any way they could as they continued bombarding him with humiliating, derogatory comments. The father and son eventually managed to escape the conference without either of them getting hurt and retreated back to the safety of their hotel room. While physically unharmed, Artie was on the verge of having a mental breakdown.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He swore, shaking uncontrollably and hyperventilating as he collapsed against one of the beds, “I ruined everything; it’s all my fault!”

“No, no! It’s not your fault! It’s not your fault and it’s alright,” Bernie repeated, placing his arm around his son and trying vainly to calm him, “It’s okay, you’re okay. You didn’t ruin anything, Artie, none of this is your fault, and you’re going to be okay!”

“No I am not!” Artie snapped, shoving his father off. “Everyone hates me now! They think I cost you the nomination and now they’re going to attack me just like they’ve attacked Clinton! I’m no better than her, now! I’m a prime target, a symbol of evil, the thing preventing you from winning!”

“Artie, don’t talk like that! Please, listen to me-“ Bernie reached out for him again, but Artie, in a rage, brought his hand up and slapped his father straight across the face. The two of them stood there silently, Bernie in shock and Artie in stunned realization of what he’d just done. Without saying a word, he ran out of the hotel room, and Bernie made no effort to stop him.

Artie sped down the halls before ducking into an empty elevator and crumpling into a ball in the corner as it began its descent. He felt horrible; he’d struck his own father, the man who had been nothing but good to him his entire life. He was upset and hurt, but he knew it was wrong to get physical. He couldn’t face Bernie, at least not now, not immediately after hitting him like that. He needed to get away, to go somewhere quiet to be alone, to calm down and gather his thoughts. He rose from the elevator floor, composing himself just as the doors slid open to let him out into the lobby, and decided upon the perfect place to flee to: the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

It wasn’t terribly far from the hotel, and he made his way there with minimal issue, being careful to remain inconspicuous so as not to be noticed by any angry Sanders fans lurking about. He paid for a ticket and meandered through the many art galleries, sulking all the while. He kept his head down around the other visitors, not wanting to show his face, the face of Donald Trump’s son. Artie wasn’t like any of these beautiful pieces they were admiring; he wasn’t a work of art at all. He was a disgrace, a big, fat disgrace and nothing more. Artie glanced up for a moment, his eyes skimming over the paintings on the opposite wall, when he just so happened to spy two familiar faces from across the gallery. An older man and older woman were gazing at the paintings together, flanked by four men in dark suits and sunglasses. The man had thinning white hair and was dressed in a simple gray suit and blue tie. The woman had carefully styled blonde hair, wore a blue pantsuit matching the man’s tie, and pearl jewelry. The man had his arm around the woman’s waist, and the two were having a quiet conversation as the four men at their sides stood stoically. Artie recognized them immediately: they were the Clintons, the men surrounding them presumably Secret Service agents.

“As if this day wasn’t fucking bad enough,” The young man muttered, “I can’t let them see me…” He quickly slipped into a crowd of people huddled around a new addition to the gallery, concealing himself from the former president and secretary of state. He was not in the mood to deal with his father’s opponent or her husband, not with all the other chaos and tumult going on. He cast a quick look over his shoulder at them, subtly observing for any indication that they had detected his presence. Thankfully, they still seemed unaware that he was there. Bill looked at his watch and then turned to say something to Hillary. She said something back to him, he nodded, and they shared a quick kiss before he departed the gallery with two of the agents tailing him. The other two remained with Hillary as she continued to peruse the paintings. The crowd was thinning, making Artie more noticeable, so he quickly ducked into the next closest gallery, hoping that there would be another mass of people he could hide in. Much to his dismay, this new gallery was nearly empty. He sighed and was about to head off in search of another place to hide when he felt a fist collide with his jaw, knocking him backwards onto the floor. Dazed from the blow, Artie looked up, only to see a young lady in a “Feel the Bern” shirt standing over him. Realizing that she was another one of his father’s mad supporters, Artie made a frantic attempt to get away, but the lady stomped down hard on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

“You!” She shrieked at him, “You fucked up this entire election! Bernie was all set to become president, but then you went and ruined everything! I’m going to make you suffer just as I and everyone else will under the oppressive, evil leaders you’ve forced us to live with!” She pounced upon him, punching and clawing and kicking the poor young man. Artie squirmed beneath her, trying again and again to knock her off of himself, but to no avail. She drew her fist back, winding up for a ferocious punch, and Artie brought his arms up to shield his face, squeezing his eyes shut as he braced himself for the impending blow. But the blow never came. He heard the lady let out a startled yelp and felt her weight lift off of him. Confused, he lowered his arms and opened his eyes. Artie was surprised to see the lady, who was visibly scared, being restrained by two men in dark suits and sunglasses. He was even more surprised, however, to see none other than Hillary Clinton standing at the men’s sides. The nominee had her arms crossed over her chest and her lips pursed, looking very displeased.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” She addressed the lady in a stern, imposing tone.

“I, uh…” The lady stuttered, unsure of how to respond. Fortunately for her, she didn’t have to. Unfortunately for her, the noise from the scuffle had managed to get the attention of a few of the museum guards in another neighboring gallery. The agents handed the lady over to them and she was escorted out of the room. Hillary waved the agents off, and they retreated to several feet behind her, giving her and Artie some space. Her firm expression had softened into a much kinder one, and she knelt down by his side, offering her hand to him.

“Need a hand?” She asked gently. He hesitated a moment, then took hold of her hand, and she helped him up. “Are you alright, Artie? Is it okay if I call you Artie, or would you prefer Mr. Sanders?” Artie would have made a ‘Mr. Sanders is my father’ joke if he’d been in a better mood, but he wasn’t feeling up to it.

“Artie is fine, Madam Secretary. I’ve been better.” He replied dryly. “What are you doing here? Where’s your husband gone off to?”

“Well, the primaries are over with but our flight out isn’t until tomorrow, so Bill and I decided to do some sightseeing.” She explained. “He wanted to go get something to eat, but I wanted to stay and look around a bit more, so we decided to split up. Are you here with your father?”

“No. He’s back at our hotel room, I guess.” Artie grumbled.

“Oh.”

“Yes…” There was an awkward silence between them for a minute, until Hillary finally broke the pause.

“So,” She said casually, “I saw your father’s announcement earlier. How are you taking it?”

“Why do you care?” Artie scoffed. “You were Dad’s opponent; you’re probably glad that this happened. Now his campaign’s fizzled out and there’s nothing stopping you from winning the Democratic nomination. Even if they hate you, his supporters have no choice but to back you if they want to avoid living under Trump. They can whine about how you’re a lying hawkish corporate shill all they want but that won’t change anything.”

“Look… your dad and I aren’t close. We were rivals, we disagree on quite a few things, and we’ve had some pretty heated debates at times, but this never should have happened to him or to you.” Hillary pointed out. “I may not agree entirely with your father, but this scandal does not define his performance as a politician. It’s something that was needlessly dug up in order to hurt him, and I’m very upset that it happened. Believe me; I know from experience that it’s never fun to have your family’s dirty laundry aired against your wishes.”

“Yeah…” Artie agreed, knowing full well what she was alluding to. He had only been in grade school at the time, but he remembered her husband’s sex scandal well. Now his father was enveloped in a full-blown scandal of his own. “This was such a shock for me, just as I’m sure it was for everyone else in the country. I still can’t believe that my dad had sex with Donald Trump, of all people!” Artie and Hillary both cringed at the mental image of Trump and Bernie making love.

“Alright, I didn’t really need to envision that…” The nominee deadpanned. “Anyways, you shouldn’t let the identity of your other dad define you. I don’t know you very well, Artie, but I can tell you’re nothing like Trump.”

“I have his nose, the blonde hair-I am like him!” Artie cried. “Why did Dad want to keep me? Why didn’t he get rid of me? Dad’s always called me his ‘work of art’, but I’m not feeling like a work of art right now. I’m not Sanders art; I’m Trump trash!”

“Well Artie, having a child is certainly a wonderful experience. For me, having my daughter was the most miraculous and awe-inspiring event in my life; I’m sure that your father felt similarly about you.”

“You know, I can’t imagine you being pregnant.” Artie said, derailing the conversation as he began looking over the presidential hopeful. Try as he might, he just couldn’t envision her with a baby bump. “I mean, it’s not that you’re not motherly or anything, I just… I can’t believe you were pregnant.”

“Well, I was,” Hillary chuckled, “Chelsea didn’t exactly appear out of thin air, you know. Bill and I had to make her, and I had to carry her. Anyways, like I said, Trump being your other father does not define who you are. Chelsea isn’t me, and she isn’t Bill either. We’re her parents, but she’s her own person and she’s made her own identity. The same goes for you, Artie. You’re not Trump, you’re not Bernie, you’re you, your own person, and only you can define yourself.” Artie felt oddly comforted by her words. It was true that he was very much like Bernie-Bernie had birthed and raised him after all, and he had adopted many of his ideas and mannerisms. It was also true that Trump was his other father, as much as he wished that it wasn’t. But he wasn’t anything like Trump, and while he was very much like Bernie, he wasn’t a clone of him. He was his own unique person, his own work of art.

“You’re right,” He finally declared, “Trump might have fathered me, but I’m nothing like him. And while I’m a lot like my dad, I’m still me. I’m my own person, and although other people may try to label me, only I can truly decide who I am.”

“That’s the spirit!” Hillary said happily.

“Hey, Artie, was it?” The two of them heard a voice smirk. They whipped around, only to see Trump appearing menacingly from one of the adjacent galleries.


	4. Chapter 4

“What do you want, Trump?” Artie snapped at him. “Haven’t you ruined things enough?”

“Leave him alone!” Hillary ordered the Republican, placing a hand protectively on Artie’s shoulder as her agents stepped forward once more. “You’ve caused him enough trouble already!”

“Fuck off, Crooked Hillary!” Trump retorted. “I’m not here to ruin things; I’m here to make a proposal to my son.”

“A proposal?” Artie exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

“Come with me, Artie!” Trump demanded, offering his hand to his child. “Forget that old geezer Sanders and his failed campaign! Come live with me, your other, better, richer, handsomer father! Come to my side and come work on my campaign! Together we’ll make America great again!”

“Why the hell would I ever work for you?” Artie scoffed. “What could possibly entice me into doing that?”

“I’m practically guaranteed to be the Republican nominee, Artie!” Trump pointed out. “From there it’ll be a smooth ride to the presidency! You can be my protégé; you can get in on the victory that’ll soon be mine! The money, the power, the title of First Son-it can all be yours if you just call me Daddy!”

“I don’t need you! I don’t want you! And I will never, ever call you Daddy!” Artie spat defiantly. “I have a father, a father who’s cared for me, who’s loved me, and who’s provided me with a comfortable home! A father who isn’t a racist, sexist assbag like you!”

“Oh, you’re no fun!” Trump sighed. “Fine! You don’t want to live with me, that’s your choice! But you’re gonna regret it when I become president!”

“Hey, Trump!” A new voice exclaimed. Artie, Hillary, and Trump looked in the direction of the voice and were surprised to see none other than Ted Cruz entering the gallery, tailed by John Kasich.

“Oh shit, it’s the Zodiac Killer and that guy from Ohio who no one cares about!” Artie cried.

“I’m not the Zodiac Killer!” Cruz whined. “I wasn’t even born yet when those murders started!”

“And people care about me!” Kasich added. “I’m still getting votes, even if they aren’t many.”

“What are you two clowns doing here?” Trump sneered.

“We’ve been looking for you, Trump.” Cruz explained. “We’re going to teach you a lesson!”

“Yeah! We’ll teach you not to mess with our party!” Kasich roared. The two of them lunged at Trump and started viciously attacking him; the Secret Service agents grabbed Artie and Hillary and whisked them off to the corner of the gallery so that they were well out of range of the scuffle. The nominee and her rival’s son observed from afar as the three Republicans fought; Kasich and Cruz had managed to wrestle Trump down to the floor, and Cruz was biting Trump’s arm while Kasich pulled his hair. Trump wasn’t content to just let them wail on him, however, and without too much effort, he kicked the other candidates off of himself and proceeded to mercilessly beat the living daylights out of them.

“Where are the guards at?” Hillary whispered to Artie. They were making quite a racket; surely the guards would have heard it.

“Maybe they’re still dealing with that girl who gave me trouble. Or maybe the guards are Democrats.” Artie joked. Hillary couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that as the two of them continued to watch the fight unfold. By this point Kasich seemed to have given up and was lying in a beaten pile on the floor, but Cruz wasn’t going to go down that easily. He and Trump were on their feet again, firing off blow after blow at each other, and the brawl only came to an end when Trump slammed his fist into Cruz’s nose. There was an audible, sickening crunching noise, the sound of cartilage breaking, and Cruz let out a pained yelp. He staggered backwards, tripping over Kasich and falling flat on his ass as blood began to run from his nose. The fight was finished; Trump had won.

“I’m done dealing with you two losers, that crooked bitch, and my bastard son.” He grumbled, dusting his suit off and running a hand through his hair to smooth it out. “Fuck all of you; I’m going home.” With that, he departed from the gallery, leaving his two rivals battered and bloody on the floor. The Secret Service agents finally let go of Hillary and Artie; the two of them cautiously approached the injured Republicans, unsure if they should intervene or not. They were both pretty banged up from the fight, but Cruz was worse off than Kasich. Kasich had a few nasty scratches here and there and a bruised eye, while Cruz was covered in gashes, bruises, and bite marks galore, and his nose, which appeared to be broken, was gushing blood. Kasich sat up, glanced over at Cruz, and shook his head in contempt.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” He scolded the younger man, “Neither of us could beat him; you should know when to quit.”

“Says the guy who’s stayed in the race for months even though he’s consistently been in last place!” Cruz huffed. “Whatever… it doesn’t matter anymore. Our party and the country are doomed.”

“Our party is essentially on the verge of imploding, but the country isn’t quite doomed,” Kasich pointed out, “There’s still one person who can keep Trump from winning.” Cruz sighed and nodded in agreement, knowing exactly what the other man meant. He and Kasich locked eyes and then looked to Hillary before rising from the ground.

“Hillary,” Cruz addressed her, pinching the bridge of his nose to lessen the flow of blood, “As much as I hate to admit this and as much as Kasich and I despise you, you’re the only person left who can stop Trump.”

“You may be a Democrat, but you’re a much better choice than him.” Kasich emphasized. “Best of luck to you this November.” With that, the two Republicans limped off in search of medical attention, leaving Hillary and Artie alone with the agents.

“Wow… that was certainly something,” Artie stated, awestruck by what had just transpired, “I can’t believe this; the Republicans hate Trump so much that they’d rather see a Democrat in office.”

“I know, right?” Hillary replied. “It’s kind of ironic. The Republican Party’s spent so long going after me and my husband, but now they’re forced to turn to me to stop Trump from taking over.”

“That is ironic!” Artie agreed. Suddenly, his stomach growled loudly. It had been a while since he’d last eaten.

“Hey, let’s go get something to eat.” Hillary suggested. “I’ll buy you some dinner.”

“Oh, well, you don’t have to,” Artie stammered, feeling a little flustered by her offer, “I have money; I can buy my own dinner.”

“I know, but I want to do this, if it’s okay with you.” She assured him. “I know a lot of great places to eat around here.”

“Well… alright then. If you really want to, it’s fine with me.” Artie accepted. “Let’s go get some food.” Hillary smiled warmly and asked him if there was anywhere in particular that he wanted to eat. They ended up going to the Reading Terminal Market, easily blending into the large crowds of people there. After enjoying their dinner they strolled around the city together; Artie felt much safer now with Hillary and her Secret Service agents at his side. He could finally enjoy himself and see all the sights Philadelphia had to offer without fear of being attacked by a crazed Sanders fan.

He spent the rest of the evening hanging out with the presidential hopeful, and he came to appreciate her a lot more. She had initially struck him as aloof, walled off, and brittle, though his impression had changed considerably. He now saw that she was very friendly, warm, and caring, albeit a bit awkward in her endeavors. It was a charming kind of awkward, though, like the awkwardness of a slightly out of touch yet loving and doting mother. He still couldn’t imagine her pregnant, but Artie did get a very comforting, motherly vibe from Hillary. He had never really had a mother figure in his life, but he was beginning to view her as one. Even though he wasn’t her child, she listened to him, she cared about him, she wanted to protect him just as a mother would. If he had had a mother, Artie decided he would have wanted one just like her. After walking for some time, the two of them stopped by a tea place in Chinatown, and Artie persuaded her to try some bubble tea. It had started to get dark out, and they ended up heading back to the art museum to sit down and rest for a bit. The candidate and her opponent’s son sat together on the edge of the massive fountain outside the museum’s front, sipping their tea and watching the many tourists below them sprinting up the steps in an imitation of the famous “Rocky” scene.

“I’ve never had chewy tea before,” Hillary said, holding her cup up to get a good look at the tiny, chewy spheres at the bottom, “What are those little bubbles made of?”

“Oh, they’re tapioca balls.” Artie explained. “Heh, look at all those people down there trying to be Rocky!” Several more tourists came bounding up the steps, and he couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the sight.

“Imagine if Sylvester Stallone came up to them and was all like ‘as an artist who respects creative integrity and intellectual property, I am disgusted by how much you’ve copied me’. Wouldn’t that be funny?” Hillary smirked, nodding towards the tourists. Artie cringed, realizing she was referencing an old meme.

“Uh, hey, sorry if I sound rude for saying this, but you may want to lay off the meme allusions,” He advised her, “I mean, I know you’re not meaning to come off this way, but here’s the thing… generally when you’re an older person and you use a meme to try and seem cool to a young person like me, it’ll be awkward to that young person and it’ll make them feel pandered to.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” She promptly apologized, “I didn’t realize that that made you feel that way; that wasn’t my intention. What would be a better way for me to relate to you?”

“I think it’d be better if you just talked to me and people my age like you’d talk to anyone else,” He suggested, “I mean, I’m a young person and I do like memes, I enjoy a good ‘Sure Jan’ and ‘Dick Cheney Made Money Off the Iraq War” every now and then, but like… I don’t know, I guess when you’re an old person using memes to identify with young people, it can feel a little condescending and it can come off like you’re trying to use trivial things to appeal to me and my age group instead of talking to us about issues we care about.”

“I never considered that it would come across like that,” Hillary admitted, “Thank you for letting me know; I didn’t realize that it was such a problem. I thought I’d be seen as more likeable if I did it.”

“I think you’re likeable,” Artie said, “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t a big fan of you at first, but you’ve grown on me. I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you, and you’ve given me some good advice.”

“I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you too,” She replied, smiling, “And you’ve taught me a thing or two as well.”

“Would it be alright if I worked for your campaign?” Artie asked. “I know I’ve spent so much time working for my dad, but now that he’s suspended his campaign and you’re the nominee I think I’d like to start working for you. I don’t want to be an idle bystander for the rest of the election; I want to get out there and do something meaningful.”

“That’d be fine with me; I can find a position for you and I’d be glad to have you on my team,” Hillary said, “But would your father be okay with it?”

“I don’t think he’d have a problem with it,” Artie assured her, “But I won’t bring this up with him right now. He’s probably going to be upset with me when I get back to our room and I don’t want to make it worse…”

“Why would he be upset with you?” Hillary asked. “I’ve seen him give you nothing but praise on TV; he adores you.”

“I know, but… I did something horrible, Secretary Clinton.” Artie sighed. “I didn’t mean to-it’s not like me at all-but I hit my dad. I know I shouldn’t have done it; I let my anger get the best of me and I feel so awful about it.”

“But your father hid something from you and you felt betrayed,” She reminded him, “It’s understandable that you’d react that way.”

“It’s understandable, but it doesn’t excuse it. It was still wrong, and I don’t know how to face my dad now…”

“I know from experience that it’s not fun to have a falling out with someone you care about, whether it’s a partner, a sibling, or a father,” Hillary told him, “Some people are willing to move on from past mistakes, and others aren’t. Everyone makes a different decision, and only you can decide what is best for yourself. Do you want to work towards moving on from this?”

“I do,” Artie affirmed, “I really do. I’m upset that Dad hid this from me, but he’s still my father, and I love him. I don’t want this to ruin the bond that we have.”

“Then go to him. Talk to him. Work something out. Get counselling if you need to; counselling can really help.”

“Maybe I will,” Artie decided, “I should probably get back to the hotel now; Dad might be worried about me.”

“Bill’s probably wondering where I am too,” Said Hillary, “It’s been nice spending time with you, Artie.”

“It’s been nice spending time with you too, Secretary Clinton,” Artie replied, beaming, “Thanks for everything, and I hope to start working for your campaign sometime in the near future!” With that, the two parted ways. Artie managed to get back to the hotel without being accosted by anyone and stood outside the door leading to his and his father’s room, psyching himself up to face Bernie. He sighed nervously; this wasn’t going to be easy, but he had to do it. He took his key and unlocked the door, hesitantly stepping inside. Bernie was there sitting on the couch with his head down, knees drawn in towards his chest, and a single tissue pressed to his face. An empty tissue box sat beside him and several crumpled up, used tissues littered the couch cushions. It was clear that he’d been weeping, and the sight broke Artie’s heart.

“Um… hi, Dad.” Artie greeted him softly. Bernie lifted his head and brought the tissue away from his face, surprised yet delighted to see his son.

“Artie!” He exclaimed, smiling through his tears, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! You were gone for so long; I thought you weren’t ever going to come back! Where were you?”

“It’s a long story,” Artie replied, “Dad, can we talk?”

“Of course. Sit down.” Bernie brushed the tissues aside and gestured to the couch, encouraging his son to join him. He did.

“I’m sorry I hit you, Dad. I was angry, but it was wrong of me to get physical. And I’m sorry for not listening to you at the Trump rally.” Artie apologized. “If I’d just left when you’d asked me to then I and the public wouldn’t have found out about your secret and your campaign would still be going strong.”

“I forgive you for hitting me, Artie. That’s the only time you’ve ever done that, it’s not something you do regularly, and I understand why you reacted that way. As for my campaign, don’t beat yourself up over that, I was destined to lose even without this scandal.” Bernie confessed. “I stayed in the race for as long as I could, I thought I really could win at first, but I’ve been falling behind in the primaries for a while now. I knew I would have to drop out at some point, but I had a good run, and I paved the way for future candidates like me to run. Just because I didn’t win doesn’t mean someone like me won’t in the future.”

“True.” Artie agreed. “I’m bummed out that you didn’t win, but Secretary Clinton is a good woman and a good politician. From this point forward I’ll do all that I can to help her get into the White House. I trust that she’ll do a good job, and I’ll be very happy when she becomes the next president.”

“…Sure.” Bernie said after some hesitation. “Anyways, let this be a lesson to you-don’t get drunk and go home with racist moguls.”

“I won’t, Dad. Believe me, I won’t.”

The End


End file.
